


You'll (have to) do.

by Beautyandlove



Series: You'll (have to) do. [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale is a Mess (Good Omens), BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is a Little Shit (Good Omens), Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Detective Aziraphale, Detective Crowley, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fake/Pretend Relationship, France (Country), Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Human AU, Human Aziraphale (Good Omens), Human Crowley (Good Omens), Human Gabriel (Good Omens), Human Michael (Good Omens), Killing, M/M, One Shot, Police, Vulnerable Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:40:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23739217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beautyandlove/pseuds/Beautyandlove
Summary: In light of the murder of six UK nationals at a resort in Calais, France, D.I Fell and D.I Crowley are sent there to catch the seemingly invisible killer.The only pickle, really, is that they have to pretend to be married.Which is fine. It’s not like Aziraphale sometimes wants to smother Crowley with a pillow or kiss him senseless, or anything.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: You'll (have to) do. [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1709962
Comments: 19
Kudos: 250
Collections: Good Omens Human AUs





	You'll (have to) do.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone. Happy Sunday. 
> 
> A few disclaimers before we start: Firstly, I don't hate the French police. Secondly, I'm no expert in detective work so please bear with me. Thirdly, I don't actually know if there are any good resorts in Calais, I've never ventured that far into the city after a ferry ride. Lastly, please read the tags--this touches on a few sensitive topics.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this one shot.

“No, absolutely not. I’m not interested.“ Aziraphale says, crossing his arms over his chest. “ _No_.”

“D.I Fell, this really isn’t up for discussion.” Gabriel sighs, the sound of his chair turning loud in the quiet room. “The situation has been going on for long enough at this point and we’re nowhere near closing the case. This isn’t me asking you to go and romance your colleague for fun but me _demanding_ you to do your job,” he says sternly, blue eyes hard. “End of discussion.”

There is an awkward pause in which Aziraphale contemplates leaving—both the room and the job. Indecently, Crowley speaks up before he can make any rash decisions. “Do I get a say in this? Why am _I_ being dragged into this? _Me_?” he glares at Gabriel.

Gabriel rolls his eyes and smiles impatiently. “Because, sunshine, the victims and this case are evidently linked to the LGBTQ+ community, as you’re both well aware, and you,” Gabriel points two fingers, one at Crowley and one at Aziraphale. “Whatever it is you are, are the only people here who identify with said community. Ergo, our only option.” he says, matter-of-factly, and claps his hands together. 

Crowley crosses his legs. “Just because I sleep with men doesn’t mean I’ve— _ever_ ,” he gestures with his thumb in Aziraphale’s direction. “With someone like him.”

“I beg your pardon?” Aziraphale says and turns to face him, taking in his messy half-up-half-down hairstyle, his black suit, the sunglasses that always seem to be perched atop the bridge of his nose, and the sneer-y tilt of his lip that sets Aziraphale’s blood boiling. “Although the sentiment is mutual. Obviously. You’re—well, you.”

Crowley scoffs and sinks deeper into his chair. “ _Obviously_ ,” he mutters, looking the other direction.

Aziraphale, for a micro-second, feels a flash of guilt flare up in his chest but it passes much too quickly for him to dwell on it. “See? Precisely my point,” he says and turns the cross-shaped ring sitting on his left middle finger. He frowns and addresses Gabriel. “This isn’t a believable arrangement, Superintendent. Surely you must see that.”

“What he said.” Crowley drawls, rubbing his cheek with his hand.

“I don’t care. It’s literally three days. Make it work.” Gabriel says and dismisses them with a half-hearted wave of his hand.

Shaking his head, Crowley just snorts and stands up, slamming the door behind him as he leaves.

Aziraphale, narrowing his eyes, groans but follows him, ducking his head to his chest as he re-enters the main area of the Dover police. He doesn’t get far before Michael taps him on the shoulder. “Trouble in paradise?” she asks, smile wide, and Aziraphale ignores her.

Hours later, when most of Aziraphale’s colleagues have left for the day, a cup of tea is placed next to the particularly boring report he’s working on.

Aziraphale looks up and is met with Crowley half-smiling half-grimacing at him. It’s an odd sight. “Listen, I’m,” Crowley sighs and looks around the mostly empty room. “I’m sorry. About earlier. S’just, this whole case has been—hard. Difficult. It’s all just hitting a bit close to home. Sooo,” he trails off and Aziraphale’s eyes follow the small, nervous gestures of his hands fluttering around the hem of his shirt. “I’m sorry. Let’s just, ngk I don’t know, try to make the best of it. Yeah?”

Aziraphale nods, heart melting the tiniest bit. “I’m sorry, too. Truly.” he says and looks down at the report, missing the way Crowley’s face twists into a small smile. “Thank you for the tea.” he adds.

“Whatever.” Crowley mumbles and turns on his heel before Aziraphale can look at him again. The scent of his aftershave hangs in the air and Aziraphale pretends not to notice as he takes a small sip of the hot beverage.

It’s bitter, has too much sugar and too little milk in it, but Aziraphale drinks it anyway.

* * *

The days pass much in the same manner as they always do. Aziraphale goes to work, writes reports, tries, and fails, to solve the Calais killings before he has to go on The Trip. The only difference now is, of course, that he keeps a watchful eye on Crowley—Crowley who is entirely competent at his job, which is unsurprising, and who is aggressively efficient at getting suspects to talk.

In this way, after a particularly eventful interrogation a few weeks after the ‘you’re going to have to pretend to love each other’ ordeal, Crowley saunters out of the room and into the back where Aziraphale is standing. “S’not him.” Crowley mutters but raises one inquisitive eyebrow. “Care for a spot of lunch?” he says, rather out of the blue.

Aziraphale, still staring at the suspect through the one-way mirror, turns and raises an eyebrow of his own. “Lunch?” he asks, immediately a bit suspicious.

Crowley rolls his eyes and runs a hand through his hair. “I don’t see why not. We have to be comfortable with each other if we want to pull of Gabe’s fuckwit disaster of a plan. S’only a few days away now, angel.” Crowley says and winks. He actually winks.

Glaring, Aziraphale shakes his head, a bit appalled, but follows him, nonetheless. “Don’t call me that.” he says and Crowley, being as he always is, just ignores him in favour of securing the lift for them. The nickname had caught on, according to Crowley and only Crowley, after a Halloween party gone wrong a few years back and Aziraphale still feels a bit sick just thinking about it.

They eat their lunch in a small establishment across the street, a quaint Italian place that serves good, though definitely not great in Aziraphale’s opinion, pasta carbonara.

“Are you not eating? You’re the one who suggested we have lunch.” Aziraphale asks after a while, nodding to the untouched food sitting in front of Crowley.

“Not hungry.” Crowley says and takes a sip of his water.

“No wonder you’re always grouchy.” Aziraphale says, voice light, which earns him a gentle kick to his leg. “And skinny.” he adds for good measure.

“There’s nothing wrong with the way I look, Aziraphale.” Crowley says, eyes fixed on the table.

“Didn’t say there was.” Aziraphale says and scoops another fork-full of pasta into his mouth. He dabs the napkin to his lips as Crowley raises his head, hiding the smug grin he can’t quite tame behind the cloth.

“We should get our story straight.” Crowley says, eyes hidden behind his dark glasses.

Aziraphale can’t help but think, as he looks at him, how much easier it would be if he’d just remove them. After all, it’s rather difficult reading somebody who has their eyes covered all the time. “Is that why we’re here?” Aziraphale wonders and takes a small sip of his water. “Did you not read the email Gabriel sent us? It’s all in there, I should think.”

“Oh yes, _absolutely_ ,” Crowley says, voice dripping with sarcasm as he continues. “We met four years ago, fell in love instantly, married two years later, and now share a house and three cats.” Crowley leans back in his chair. “It’s absolute horseshit.”

Aziraphale can’t help but chuckle. “While I agree with you, do you really think people are going to be asking questions?” Aziraphale says. “If you saw a couple you’d never met before who claimed to be married, would you really interrogate them?”

“Uh, well, point taken,” Crowley trails off and actually takes a bite of food--it makes Aziraphale smile and he pointedly decides not to dwell on why, exactly. “Married,” Crowley says after a moment or two, fingers drawing patterns on the table. “How the hell does one act married?”

“Oh, I’m the last person to ask,” Aziraphale admits, a bit sheepishly. “I haven’t been with anyone in a very long time, I’m afraid.”

“I’m shocked.” Crowley deadpans then grins as he takes another bite.

“This is why people don’t like you, you know.” Aziraphale points out.

“Good thing I’d don’t like people, then,” Crowley says nonchalantly and leans forward a bit. “Give me your hand.” he breathes.

Aziraphale looks around the crowded room. “What?”

“Trust me?” Crowley asks.

“No.” Aziraphale lies, possibly quite terribly, and rests his hand in Crowley’s.

“See, s’not so bad,” Crowley says softly and—it’s not. Bad, that is.

“It’ll all be okay, in the end.” Aziraphale says quietly, to himself or to Crowley he’s not entirely sure. Though it hardly matters.

Crowley looks up at him and offers a crooked smile. “I know.”

They let go of each other’s hands, then, and finish their meals, talking more over the next thirty minutes than they have throughout the seven years they’ve worked together.

Before they enter the police station precisely thirty-two minutes later, afternoon sun hot on their backs, Crowley tugs Aziraphale to a stop. “I wanted to-- _shit_ ,” Crowley turns and glares at the sun. “Listen, I know I’m not the easiest person to be around, but I just wanted to let you know that I don’t dislike you. I’ve never disliked you. Just so that’s very clear.”

Aziraphale raises his eyebrows in surprise and lies, possibly quite terribly, again. Just a bit. “I’ve never disliked you, either.”

“Bullshit” Crowley says.

It’s only later, when all the sane people have left for the day, that Aziraphale approaches Crowley’s desk. He tugs at the ring on his middle finger. “Please don’t think that I dislike you, Crowley. I may have, in the past, but not to a great extent and not very often and certainly not anymore.”

Crowley, who had been hunched over a stack of papers, looks up and lifts his glasses. “Is that you, Aziraphale? Thought I heard something,” he says, his voice that sharp, joke-y tone that Aziraphale has heard directed at particularly annoying interviewees. It’s bright and intelligent and _oh Lord his eyes how is it possible he’s never seen his eyes before_? They are the most wonderous shade of pale green and yellow and Aziraphale is just a bit at a loss for words. “You’re here late.” Crowley observes when Aziraphale just stands there, mouth agape.

“Rather. Goodnight, Crowley.” Aziraphale stammers out and flees before he can say any of the things which are on his mind. He ignores Crowley’s ‘goodnight husband’ because it sounds _some type of way_ , and that’s certainly not all right.

* * *

Almost exactly 24 hours later, Crowley sits down on top of Aziraphale’s desk, legs dangling off the floor. Aziraphale raises an eyebrow and moves his cup of tea out of the way. “What can I do for you?” he says, returning his gaze to the computer screen.

Crowley looks around the room, the right corner of his mouth twisted upward into a small, nervous-looking smirk. It looks rather out of place, Aziraphale thinks. “We’re going to have to,” Crowley waves his left hand around. “ _Kiss_.”

Aziraphale stops actively reading the information on the screen but does not turn to face Crowley. “Well, yes,” he says and, as an afterthought, adds. “Unless it would make you uncomfortable?”

“Nah,” Crowley says quickly. “S’fine.”

Aziraphale turns to him, then, and raises his eyebrows. “Good.” he says and smiles a bit.

Crowley’s hair bobbles as he nods his head. “Right, do you want to,” he trails off and shrugs his shoulders. “Now? Or?”

“I should think,” Aziraphale starts and licks his lips. Instinctively, of course. He ignores the way his heart races as Crowley leans a bit closer. _Best get it over with_. “I should think that would be acceptable, certainly.”

“You sure?” Crowley breathes and Aziraphale can feel his breath on his face—he smells of too strong tea and Digestives. “We don’t, you know--“

“Oh, for the love of,” Aziraphale huffs and leans forward, seizing Crowley’s face in his hands and pressing their lips together. He can feel Crowley smile a bit under his lips and wonders, distantly, why they’ve never done this before. _You don’t get along_ , a voice inside his head tells him, but he can’t help but think that the voice is just a bit mistaken.

A throat clears behind them, some unknown amount of time later, and Crowley pulls always so hastily he nearly slides off the desk. “I’m so sorry to bother you but you don’t happen to know where the key to the storage closet is, do you?” Newt, the new secretary, says and offers them a gentle smile.

Crowley throws his head back and groans, pursing his lips as he jumps off the desk. “What the fuck are you still doing here? _Go home_.” he sneers and stalks off in the direction of the staff breakroom.

Aziraphale, who’s still thinking about the way Crowley’s hair had felt against his cheek, just blushes and reaches for his keyring. “The small one with the red line, dear.” he says and throws the keys to Newt. Then adds. “Oh, and don’t mind him, he just doesn’t eat nearly enough.”

Newt offers him a grateful smile and hurries off.

Crowley returns a few moments later, two mugs of undoubtedly too strong tea in his hands. He hands one to Aziraphale. “Okay?” he asks and Aziraphale smiles down at the tea.

“Of course.” Aziraphale says. “Although I think you might have scared off Newt. You really ought to be kinder to him.”

“Nah,” Crowley says and takes a sip of his tea. “Fear builds character.”

“Remind me to never actually marry you, you madman.” Aziraphale says and can’t quite help the fond smile that spreads across his face as he looks at Crowley—who’s lips are a bit swollen and who looks just a bit dishevelled.

Crowley grins back at him, rolling his eyes as Newt awkwardly approaches them and returns the keys. “Go home,” Crowley says, a bit more kindly this time.

“Yes D.I Crowley. Sorry.” Newt says and shuffles out of the room.

Aziraphale follows Newt with his gaze, something akin to worry settling in his chest. “People will have to believe us. For it to work, that is.”

“You don’t think they will?” Crowley asks and takes a seat atop Aziraphale’s desk again.

Aziraphale looks at the door through which Newt had left, down at his cup, and then back up at Crowley. He can see himself in the lenses of Crowley’s glasses which is a bit unnerving. “Well, I certainly think Newt bought it.”

“ _See_. It’ll be fine.” Crowley says and raises his cup. “To good lying.” he declares, entirely overdramatically.

Aziraphale tuts at him. “Please don’t call it that. I don’t condone lying, in any form.”

“Pray tell, Aziraphale, what would you call it then?”

“Well, _pretending_ is a far less negatively connotated word.” Aziraphale says.

“Pfff,” Crowley replies but clinks their mugs together, nonetheless, rolling his eyes. “To _pretending_ , then. Bloody hell, angel.”

* * *

They end up taking the ferry to Calais. Crowley spends most of the journey complaining about the boat industry, looking alarmingly _green_ for the duration of it, and Aziraphale reads a book. It’s a generic romance novel, a pocketbook he picked up just before they boarded and it’s remarkably okay. Considering.

He glances at Crowley, whose head is resting on the table, and taps him on the shoulder. “We’re nearly there.” Aziraphale says, the shore of France visible in the distance.

Crowley groans and sits up, chin resting in his right hand. He glares at Aziraphale. “We’re flying home.” he rasps.

Aziraphale presses his lips together, a bit unsympathetically. “Good luck convincing Gabriel of that.”

“I don’t _do_ boats.” Crowley mutters and Aziraphale reaches for his water bottle, handing it to him.

“Yes, you’ve said,” Aziraphale mutters and puts away his book. Crowley is a warm, constant, presence next to him and Aziraphale reaches for his hand--for appearances sake, of course. Not because Crowley looks worse for wear and it’s rather painful to watch. “Let the deceiving begin.” he whispers conspiratorially, twirling his eyebrows.

Crowley squeezes his hand and rolls his eyes. “Indeeed.” he drawls and proceeds to press a chaste kiss to Aziraphale’s cheek.

“Great.” Aziraphale says.

“Thought we agreed on pretending, though. Not _deceiving_.” Crowley says after a moment.

“Is there a difference?” Aziraphale asks. There’s a little baby girl in a stroller just opposite them who waves at him. He waves back.

Crowley shakes his head disapprovingly. “Obviously.”

When they leave the boat, suitcases in hand, an elderly lady smiles at them. “Young love.” she says as they queue for the passport control, patting them both on their chests. Aziraphale doesn’t have the heart to tell her that it’s hardly young love so he just nods and gives Crowley the fondest look he can muster.

“You here on holiday?” Crowley asks the lady and lifts his glasses, raising his left eyebrow in that intimidating way he sometimes does

The lady takes a step back and gives Aziraphale a nervous glance. “My grandson and his family live in France.” she says. “Are you with the police?”

 _Uh, well_. “Certainly not.” Aziraphale says quickly and gives her a warm smile. He’ll have to kill Crowley at this rate. “We hope you have a lovely time with your grandson and his family.”

“ _Certainly not_.” Crowley parrots as the lady moves forward to show her passport. “I thought you were above lying?”

“What the hell are you playing at, Crowley? You can’t just go,” Aziraphale looks around and leans in closer. Their noses are nearly touching and that really is an accident. “Around interrogating people willy-nilly. That isn’t considered normal behaviour.”

“Relax, Aziraphale. S’just a bit of fun.” Crowley says, shifting from one foot to another. “Besides, you should never leave a stone unturned.”

“I’m fairly certain you could have left that stone unturned.” Aziraphale says and staggers backwards, just a bit, when Crowley suddenly presses their lips together.

“Speaking of natural,” Crowley snorts and presses another kiss to Aziraphale lips. “You shouldn’t recoil when your husband kisses you. That isn’t normal behaviour.”

“I didn’t recoil, you absolute nuisance.” Aziraphale says and tugs on his waistcoat. The sun is bright and high in the sky and he glares after Crowley as he saunters over to the passport control.

* * *

The lobby at the resort is nice, tall ceilings and large windows towering over them as they enter. A lady at the front desk smiles at them. “Hello, Welcome to Sun-side resort.” she, Aziraphale squints and makes out the name Laurine on her nametag, says in a French accent.

Crowley scoffs but offers her a small, snide smile. “Hello, Madame, my _hus’band_ and I would like to check in.” he says. Aziraphale glares at him because _who says it like that_?

“Of course,” Laurine says cheerfully, giving them a once over. “Your last name, please.”

“Crowley-Fell,” Aziraphale says quickly--deciding that taking over the conversation is well and truly for the best--and with little fuss they’re taken to their room, a large suite situated on the top floor. The designated portman, though he’s definitely more of a child Aziraphale notes, gives them the run-through tour of the place, outlining the times for various breakfasts, lunches, and dinners.

Aziraphale just hums. “How does it work with the keys, Sir?” he asks and walks over to the four French doors leading out to the balcony. “I presume you can only open these from the inside?” he tugs at the handle and two of the doors fly open. He closes them slowly again.

Crowley walks over to him and places a hand on his shoulder. “Pot calling the kettle black, much. No interrogations _remember_?” he says near inaudibly. Aziraphale pretends not to hear him and surveys the balcony instead. It’s certainly big enough for a party of ten and thus a killer.

“Of course,” the portman says. “All our rooms are only accessible from the inside or with the master key. For emergencies.” he adds.

“The master key? Who has access to the master key?” Crowley says and turns around. Aziraphale follows his reflection in the window.

“Sirs, I understand you must be worried considering what’s happened here, but I can assure you--you’ll be perfectly safe.” the portman says and Aziraphale fights the urge to roll his eyes.

“Thank you,” Crowley says and sighs heavily. “I don’t want to be _rude_ ,” his reflection gives Aziraphale a pointed look. “But would you please give us a moment. I get terribly seasick and I’d like to rest for a bit.” Crowley says sheepishly and Aziraphale coughs to cover up the laugh that bubbles up his throat at the absolute, albeit trueish, rubbish.

“Certainly,” the portman says, politely letting them know that if they don’t arrive at the restaurant within the hour, they’ll miss dinner. 

“Knob.” Crowley mutters as the door closes.

“Oh hush,” Aziraphale says but agrees. Inwardly. 

“So,” Crowley says, once the footsteps of the portman disappear down the corridor, and walks over to Aziraphale and the French doors, tapping on the glass. “The alleged break in happens here. The killer uses a tool, some type of knife, and makes a clean cut in the glass.” he turns the lock and the door opens quietly. “He then walks over to the far side of the bed. Kills person A first. We know that person B is killed about an hour later which implies that they have to watch.” Crowley gets down on his hands and knees and checks under the bed.

Aziraphale takes a step closer. “We know that person A is killed in their sleep, however. If someone were sawing through that window,” Aziraphale gestures to the doors. “Chances are person B would wake up.”

“Exactly,” Crowley says and tosses his glasses onto the bed. “Which suggests that the murderer is already inside when they go to bed.” Crowley rolls under the bed and Aziraphale feels a cold shiver run down the length of his spine.

“We’re looking for a skinny person, relatively small.” Aziraphale says, shakes his head, and crunches down, bending his head to look under the bed. “For instance, _I_ couldn’t fit here.” he straightens up and retrieves Crowley’s glasses for him before they accidently break them. “So, the killer gets in during the day, waits for them to fall asleep, kills them, steals all their belongings, and then makes it look like they got in through the balcony.” Aziraphale says in one go, furrowing his brows in confusion. “You know what I don’t get,” he says as Crowley rolls out from under the bed. He makes no indication of getting up so Aziraphale reaches out a hand for him to take. “Why force person B to watch?”

Crowley pulls himself up with the help of Aziraphale and brushes off his clothes. “Haven’t got the faintest.” Crowley murmurs and Aziraphale positions the glasses back onto his face. Crowley ducks his face and a loose strand of hair falls down to cover his eyes. “I guess we’ll find out in, what, two days’ time, is it?” he says, notably flustered, and Aziraphale is overcome by a strange sense of accomplishment.

“I should think we have a good two and a half days left, _at least_.” Aziraphale says, it is meant as a joke but comes off rather serious, and twirls his ring, the new, gold one on his ring finger.

“Excellent, gives us time to enjoy a payed holiday.” Crowley says and looks at Aziraphale. His cheeks are slightly flushed, and his lips form a small smile.

 _He’s quite beautiful_ , a voice inside Aziraphale roars and he promptly turns and walks to inspect the bathroom because he can’t quite bear the way his heart speeds up at the thought.

* * *

Night-time creeps up on them, the sun sets and all indoor lights are turned on. Crowley is sitting on one side of the bed, rummaging through his suitcase and Aziraphale is sitting on the other side, pretending to do the same but really just trying to figure out how and where to change into his pyjamas. He’s definitely not stripping in front of Crowley. Not happening.

“You can have the bathroom first,” Crowley tells him and Aziraphale quickly glances over his shoulder. Crowley is grinning at him, glasses off.

“Thank you,” Aziraphale says, relieved, and grabs his things. The large mirror in the bathroom does little to ease his nerves, however, so Aziraphale turns his back to it and proceeds to get it all over with. He brushes his teeth, combs his har, washes his face, and puts on the white tartan pyjama set he’s owned for he doesn’t even know how long. He secretly hopes Crowley will have fallen asleep by the time he finishes but is the tiniest bit happy to see that he’s wide awake on the bed, phone in hand. He’s dressed in sweat trousers and a loose navy-blue V-neck and Aziraphale adamantly ignores the little voice inside his head telling him that he’s rather lovely. Again. ”Your turn,” he says casually and dumps the clothes from the day into his bag.

Crowley beams and jumps off the bed, padding past Aziraphale. “Nice pyjamas.” he says before he disappears behind the door and Aziraphale covers his face with his hands and groans.

Once they’re under the covers, a seemingly short while later, Crowley turns to face Aziraphale. “What?” Aziraphale asks and lowers his book.

“Nothing.,” Crowley says, eyes curious.

Aziraphale presses his lips together and puts his book away. “Crowley,” he says softly and shuffles further down under the covers. “I know when I’m being lied to.” he reaches out and taps a gentle finger against Crowley’s tightly closed hand. It falls open.

“Is that so?” Crowley says, eyes cunning, and raises one eyebrow before turning his back to Aziraphale. “Goodnight, angel.”

Aziraphale just chuckles and turns off the bedside lamp. “Goodnight, Crowley.” he whispers. Only when he’s certain that Crowley is asleep does Aziraphale clasp his hands and bow his head, praying for safety and prosperous days ahead, for forgiveness and for a certain redhead who’s currently snoring away right next to him.

* * *

The night, as most of them do, drags on.

Aziraphale doesn’t really sleep much, or easily; he never has. Not at home and most definitely not in this murder-infested place. The curtains are drawn shut, a small streak of moonlight coming from just above the curtain rail, and Aziraphale reckons it must be in the early hours of the morning.

He sighs and turns to his side so he’s facing Crowley. Crowley, whose mouth is hanging open, whose eyes are tightly shut, and whose hair is a wild mess atop the pillow. His top is wrinkled by now, the navy fabric a stark contrast against the sheets, and it’s all so quiet and peaceful it’s difficult to imagine it’s really Crowley. Aziraphale reaches out a hand and carefully moves some of the hair from his face. It looks rather a lot like fire, he thinks, in the darkness.

Near dizzy with over-tired and sudden fondness for the man before him, Aziraphale closes his eyes, listens to Crowley’s steady breathing, and while Aziraphale doesn’t sleep, much or easily, he does then. He must do, in any case, because the next time he opens his eyes the room is a bit brighter and there’s clearly someone else awake in there with him.

He bolts upright but lets out a sigh of relief when he realises it’s just Crowley sitting on the bed. _Not a wily murderer, then. Not yet._ “What r’y doing?” he asks, voice rough with sleep.

Crowley shushes him and holds up a finger. “There’s someone in the gardens.” he says, apparently wide awake.

Furrowing his brows, Aziraphale falls back onto the mattress. “How on earth can you possibly know that?” he asks, more awake himself and as a result significantly more annoyed, also.

“Look at the brightness, it’s--shifting,” Crowley gestures to the light coming in from above the curtain rails. “Like someone setting off a motion sensor light outside.”

“Maybe someone is just out for an early-morning stroll?” Aziraphale says and yawns, rubbing at his eyes.

Crowley turns to him, hair all over the place and eyes bloodshot. “If you’d at all listened when that knob talked us through the housekeeping of this godforsaken place, you’d know the gardens are off limits from 11p.m to 7a.m, angel.”

Aziraphale groans and sits up again, side-eyeing Crowley. “Why are you up, in any case?” he asks.

“Not important,” Crowley says distantly. He stares up at the ceiling. “Look.”

Aziraphale does look and from nowhere, the room plummets into darkness. He raises a brow in Crowley’s general direction. “It could be a fox.” he reasons. He’d like for it to be a fox. Foxes are better than killers, at any rate.

“Really?” Crowley says and presses a button on his watch. They sit in silence and just as Crowley’s watch gives a quiet _beep_ the light outside turns on again. “Foxes don’t walk back and forth every thirty seconds, ‘Ziraphale. It’s been going on for about twenty minutes now.”

“Let’s say, hypothetically, that there is a person out there--does that really matter?” Aziraphale asks and turns to look at Crowley.

“What’s important is that it might. Matter, that is.” Crowley huffs and lies down again, giving Aziraphale an odd look as the room goes dark. “Can we switch sides?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Don’t like this side. I’can’t sleep on this side.” Crowley says and there’s something akin to pleading in his voice. “S’too—ngk _person B-y_.”

Aziraphale sighs tiredly, gets up anyway, and walks around to the other side of the bed. He likes to think he can see Crowley smiling at him as he lays down on person B’s side but it’s really too dark to tell. “Better not thank me.” he says, definitely not breathing in Crowley’s aftershave that lingers on the cotton pillowcase as he gets comfortable.

“Wasn’t going to,” Crowley says.

“Nuisance,” Aziraphale mutters, wiggles a bit under the sheets, then adds. “We can go to the gardens tomorrow, if you like. See if we spot anything _suspicious_.”

“Mhm, shh go t’sleep, ‘ngel.” Crowley breathes.

Silence falls over the room, then, and just when Aziraphale’s eyes fall shut once more, many minutes later, a cold hand finds his under the duvet. 

* * *

They don’t go to the gardens the following day. Instead Crowley suggests they lie by the pool because _the sun is bloody soaring and the temperatures are nearing 30 degrees Aziraphale_ which Aziraphale, in turn, thinks an absolutely atrocious idea.

“You know,” Crowley starts and looks at Aziraphale over the top of his gossip magazine. “My guess is you’d be less miserable if you actually sat down and relaxed.” Aziraphale, who’s been standing near his sunchair for the past 30 minutes, can’t see his eyes but he can just about picture them rolling back into his skull.

“I’d really rather not, Crowley.” Aziraphale says and tugs at his button-up up shirt. “We can’t all just,” he looks down at Crowley’s bare chest and his black swimming trunks and _dear god is that a tattoo on his right hip!?!_ “ We can’t just all lounge around as easily as you.” he manages, after a moment.

“Don’t see why not.” Crowley mutters.

“Of course, you don’t, look at you.” Aziraphale snaps and promptly looks away. He can feel Crowley staring at him, however, so the gesture is really quite meaningless.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Crowley says and sits up in his sunchair.

“You look, well, you look _good_ , don’t you and so,” Aziraphale trails off and runs a hand over his face.

“What? And you don’t?” Crowley asks, tone terse.

Frustrated, Aziraphale glares at him. “I know that I’m--soft, Crowley, and I’m fine with it but I don’t make a habit of _broadcasting_ it for everyone to see.”

“Why ever not? Don’t freak out, Aziraphale, but you’re, objectively, very pleasant to look at. Y’look like those bloody angels they put on bookmarks.” Crowley says and purses his lips in so obviously feigned uninterest.

Aziraphale just gapes at him. “Come again?”

“You’re freaking out,” Crowley warns.

“Did you just compliment me?”

“Ugh for heaven’s sake,” Crowley exclaims. “Never doing that again, don’t worry.” he says and Aziraphale feels that quiet fondness from the previous night, that soft burning at the pit of his stomach, soar into something much more difficult to just outrightly ignore.

“Thank you, Crowley.” Aziraphale says quietly. He sits down and lifts his legs up onto the sunchair, smiling tentatively at Crowley. “You’re right, this is rather lovely.” he says to which Crowley just scoffs. Aziraphale adds. “But I’m not removing my shirt.” to which Crowley just scoffs even louder.

A few minutes later, Crowley clears his throat and stands up to tower over Aziraphale. “Right. Move up.” he says, hands on his hips, and Aziraphale has to squint to see him properly.

“I trust that you’re joking?” Aziraphale says and frowns when Crowley sits down on the edge of his seat. _Clearly not, then_.

“I don’t joke, angel,” Crowley says and makes himself comfortable next to Aziraphale.

“While I’m not strictly opposed to being near you, Crowley, it’s a bit warm for it, don’t you think?” Aziraphale says but turns to give Crowley a bit more space, anyway.

“We have an audience,” Crowley singsongs and rests his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder. 

Aziraphale looks at him before lifting his eyes to survey’s the pool-area. He sees nothing out of the ordinary. “Where?” he whispers.

“Cleaner or something, two balconies up.” Crowley says into his shoulder.

Indeed, when Aziraphale lifts his gaze there is a man staring at them. “Well spotted.” he says.

“He’s been sitting there taking photographs for the past half hour.” Crowley says. He lets his right hand rest atop Aziraphale’s stomach, pulling gently at the creased fabric. “Now, if you look to your left, behind the trampoline,” he says and Aziraphale slowly turns to look. “That’s the only gate that leads to the gardens. There’s a motion sensor just by the gate and judging by what happened last night, there are more of those sensors in the actual gardens.“

“Since the pool area, and vis-a-vi, that gate, is only accessible through the main building, whatever was in the garden must have come through there.” Aziraphale says.

“Exactly my point.” Crowley says and looks up at Aziraphale. His skin is slightly red from the sun and Aziraphale has to bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself from smiling at the irregular pattern of freckles visible underneath. 

“That is to say,” Aziraphale starts and lifts his hand to push back some hair from Crowley’s face. “The killer works at the resort.”

“Or is a semi-permanent resident at the resort but your thing makes more sense. Obviously.” Crowley says and relaxes into Aziraphale’s body. Resting his hand on Crowley’s arm, Aziraphale is slightly disturbed to find that it’s all rather nice.

* * *

Approximately ten hours later, Aziraphale blinks his eyes open, vision blurry from a bit too much wine. He reaches out a hand to his right and fins Crowley asleep, burrowed into the pillows. He swallows thickly and sits up. The room is bright, like it had been the previous night, and Aziraphale lifts the bedding and pads over to the French doors.

The next time the room plunges into darkness, Aziraphale opens a small gap in the curtains, crunching down nearer the floor. The gardens are dark for another 25 seconds or so before they erupt in brightness and a figure runs across the lawns. It’s nearly impossible to tell anything significant about the person, except in which direction they’re going.

Aziraphale narrows his eyes and stands up, striding over to the bed. “Crowley,” he hisses. When he doesn’t stir Aziraphale grabs his shoulder and says. “Crowley,” a bit more forcefully. At that, Crowley blinks his eyes open and before he gets a chance to freak out, Aziraphale places a hand on his cheek and leans in a bit closer. “It’s alright, it’s just me, dear. It’s alright.”

Crowley blinks a couple more times and relaxes under Aziraphale’s hand. “Bloody hell, ‘Ziraphale.” he huffs, voice heavy with sleep.

“I really am terribly sorry to have frightened you but there’s somebody in the gardens.” Aziraphale whispers and sits back, gesturing to the doors.

Crowley sits up and runs a hand through his hair. The room goes dark again and they slowly make their way back to the slightly open curtains, crouching right next to each other. “They’re walking towards the bottom of the garden, nearest the beach.“ Crowley murmurs, leaning a bit against Aziraphale.

“What on earth are they doing?” Aziraphale asks. “What could possibly take two nights to do?”

Crowley disappears for a moment and reruns with his phone. He opens the camera and zooms in as far as it allows. “Shit camera.” he mutters and Aziraphale shrugs his shoulders.

“It’ll do. Send that to Gabriel.” Aziraphale says.

“Hang on,” Crowley breathes and leans towards the glass. “There’s two of them.”

Aziraphale leans closer as well and sees a second figure jog across the lawn, carrying something in their hands. “Odd.”

“I thought they only found one set of prints.” Crowley says.

“They did.” Aziraphale breathes and turns to face Crowley. “Maybe these people aren’t rela--“ but before he can finish his sentence something is thrown at their doors, something heavy and large, making both of them stumble backwards out of sheer fright.

“Jesus Christ, what is wrong with people?” Crowley exclaims. He stands up and flings the curtains aside, throwing open the doors. Aziraphale is up on his feet within seconds and joins him on the balcony. A black plastic bottle with the words _Die Homo_ is lying just in front of Crowley’s bare feet. “Well shit.” Crowley breathes.

“I’ll get a tissue,” Aziraphale says and walks back into the room. He rummages through the nightstands and grabs a couple of Kleenex. “Here, let me.” he says as he approaches and kneels beside where Crowley is on the floor, reaching for the bottle. It’s significantly lighter than it sounded, that’s for certain.

Crowley stands up along with Aziraphale. “The words are written using nail polish,” Crowley says and leans in a bit closer, examining it.

Aziraphale squints at it. “Would you look at that.” he says, turning it around. The white letters are indeed written using a pearly white, almost glittery, nail vanish. _Isn’t that just phenomenally ironic._

“Hold still,” Crowley say and takes a photo of it. “Gabriel is going to wake up to two fun texts tomorrow.”

Chuckling a bit, Aziraphale is in the process of securely putting the bottle down when it hits him. “They knew we were looking, Crowley.”

Crowley, who is busy locking the doors, turns around and makes a disgruntled face. “I’m really too tired to deal with this right now.” he says and walks over to the bed. “These sodding arseholes can very well wait ‘til the morning.”

Aziraphale just stares at him. “Are you telling me you can sleep after all that?” he hisses and walks to the bed. He lowers his voice and gestures around the room. “There might be cameras in here, Crowley. The place might be _bugged_.”

Sighing, Crowley shakes his head. “Even if that’s the case, which it isn’t trust me we’d know, it’s too late now.”

“If your sleep deprivation gets us killed, I will never talk to you again,” Aziraphale huffs but decides to lay down next to Crowley anyway, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Lovely logic,” Crowley says and Aziraphale elbows him in the ribs, earning him a careful shove in return. “Goodnight, angel.” Crowley breathes after a moment.

Shaking his head, Aziraphale turns to him and moves closer. Crowley raises an eyebrow. “For the hidden cameras.” Aziraphale explains.

He knows it’s rubbish, by the looks of it Crowley does too, but it’s eerily quiet, the lights outside keep turning on and off, and Aziraphale doesn’t want to feel quite so alone.

* * *

“You’re obviously going to have to go to the garden.” Gabriel says, his voice is loud in the earphone Aziraphale has stuck in his left ear. He glares down at his breakfast. _So much for enjoying an unpaid holiday, Crowley_.

Crowley, who has the other earphone, rolls his eyes and takes a sip of his coffee. “Good idea. Never would have thought of that.” he says.

Aziraphale laughs into his tea and glances at Crowley. “I trust you saw the pictures we sent you?”

“I did.” Gabriel says and there’s a loud _bang_ coming from the other end.

“And..?” Crowley says, furrowing his brows at Aziraphale.

“And what?”

“And what do you want us to do with the bloody evidence currently lying on a desk in our room?” Crowley exclaims and turns to Aziraphale with a look that so blatantly says _are you hearing this?_

“I think what Crowley means is, well, that it would be useful if someone could come and retrieve the evidence before it gets tainted.” Aziraphale says, rubbing his temple. “Preferably before _tonight_.”

“I’m not sure that’s possible. I’ll check with my people and get back to you.” Gabriel says and promptly hangs up.

Crowley rips out his earphone and groans into his hands. “What. Is. The point of him?”

Aziraphale, who had been hoping for a quiet breakfast on their balcony and who now instead has a headache, leans back and closes his eyes. “Are you going to finish your yoghurt, or can I have it?”

He hears Crowley push the glass bowl towards him. “Be my guest.”

“Thank you,” Aziraphale says and opens his eyes to find Crowley staring at him. “What?” he asks and leans forward a bit.

“Nothing,” Crowley says, uncharacteristically softly, and stands up. He downs the rest of his coffee before he leaves and calls over his shoulder. “I’m taking a shower and then we’ll go to the _mysterious gardens_.” he says, all very theatrical.

Shaking his head, Aziraphale looks down at Crowley’s yoghurt and does a double take—the spoon is resting against one of the sides and there’s an angel-wing-shaped muesli pattern formed around it.

Aziraphale doesn’t have the heart to destroy it, so he finishes his tea and goes to get dressed instead—feeling just that bit warmer all over.

When Crowley exits the bathroom a few minutes later, hair dripping onto his black T-shirt, Aziraphale presses his lips together and says, despite himself and very much out of the blue _he’s well aware_. “I can’t bear the thought of you dying so don’t die on me tonight.” It sounds rushed ever to his own ears, but he hopes the sentiment, or whatever driving force has hijacked his brain, comes across, regardless.

Crowley looks at him, eyes bright and wonderfully _kind_ , and gives one, single nod. “I’ll be sure to put your request through to our killer.” he says and Aziraphale can tell he’s trying to laugh it off as a joke, but it doesn’t really work.

Glancing at his lap, Aziraphale takes a steadying breath. “Good, that’s, well, very good.” he pulls at a loose thread on the bedspread. The scent of Crowley’s shower gel and shampoo and whatever else he puts in his hair is filling up the room and it’s only a tad distracting. _Sandalwood_. “Shall we get going, then? To the _mysterious gardens_.” Aziraphale says, trying and undoubtedly failing to mimic Crowley.

“Yup,” Crowley pops the _p_ and ties his hair back, putting his sunglasses on. He raises an eyebrow over their rim. “You alright?” he asks and Aziraphale only then realises he’s been staring.

“Tip-top.”

* * *

The gardens are well kept. Benches and statues and small ponds with little goldfish are scattered all around and while Aziraphale can think of fifty more enjoyable pastimes, Crowley stops ever few meters to photograph flowers and plants and trees and somehow that makes it worthwhile.

It takes about fifteen minutes to reach the very end of the garden, where a red solid fence blocks the patrons of the resort from going any nearer the slope that leads to the beach. “You’d have to run really quickly to get from here and back up there in 30 seconds.” Aziraphale says, a bit out of breath. It’s excruciatingly warm and he wishes he’d worn his sunhat.

“I know,” Crowley says, incidentally not out of breath. Aziraphale wonders what type of exercise he does. Probably something antisocial like swimming. Or jogging. “Unless there are cameras off to the sides— _there_.” Crowley points at the trees that outline the gardens and Aziraphale takes a step closer.

“Makes sense. There’s nothing really stopping you from entering this space from the public beach.” Aziraphale says and looks back at the fence. “We should ask somebody to let us back there, I think it could be rather useful.”

“Oh Aziraphale,” Crowley says, voice dripping with mischief, patting Aziraphale’s shoulder as he passes. “Come along.”

“ _Crowley_!” Aziraphale exclaims and jogs a few steps to keep up. “You cannot go back there. It says so on the sign.”

“And—uh what?” Crowley stops and turns around--his shirt is clinging to his chest and Aziraphale has to physically look away to focus. “Are they going to call the police?” Crowley asks, frantically gesturing between the two of them.

“We’re UK police on French soil, we cannot possible get away with—”

“We’re literally here because the French police are a fucking mess.” Crowley says and marches towards the fence. “You can either stand there and wait or you can come with me and we can get this over with. If you like, we can blame Gabriel if everything goes to shit.”

Aziraphale covers his face with his hands and sighs. He knows Crowley is right but it’s simultaneously trespassing and it’s in the middle of the day and _people might see_. “Fine,” he says anyway and starts walking to where Crowley is already jumping over the fence. “Just--be careful.” he calls but Crowley either ignores him or doesn’t hear him because he just keeps walking further and further away.

“Oi Aziraphale, I’found something.” Crowley yells, eventually.

Reluctantly, Aziraphale hauls himself over the fence and lands on the other side. Before he can do much more than dust off his trousers, however, Crowley recoils from whatever it is he’s found and staggers to the side. He bends over and coughs and that’s, well, that’s _highly_ unusual. “Crowley?” Aziraphale calls.

The only response he gets is a choked sound and a raised hand that clearly says _don’t come any closer_.

Eyes widening, Aziraphale sets off towards him but before his brain can catch up with what his senses are experiencing, he stumbles backwards and covers his mouth with his arm. There, on the ground, lies the body of a girl, she’s partially covered by a pile of dirt and the distinct smell of rotting flesh hangs heavy in the air. _Late active decay, she must have been here for weeks_. He turns around and fights the urge to vomit, tears making it hard to see. “ _Oh God_.” he wipes at his eyes and hurries over to Crowley. 

Crowley doesn’t look up at him, elbows on knees and hands in har. “Why the fuck is there a young girl’s body here?” he rasps, wiping his mouth on his arm. “Is this--?” his voice catches on a sob, and he hiccups, clasping a hand over his mouth.

“I don’t know,” Aziraphale whispers and squats down, leaning his forehead against Crowley’s cheek. He wraps him in a one-armed hug. “But we have to go.”

Nodding, Crowley takes a deep breath and looks up. “Just,” he stands up and drags Aziraphale with him. “We have to—bloopy document it or s’mthing. Inform Gabriel.”

Aziraphale nods and looks at the ground while Crowley takes the pictures. It’s over within seconds but it doesn’t quite feel like it.

When they eventually make it back to the top of the gardens it’s just after 1p.m and the pool area is milling with people. Laughter and small talk. People shouting. 

“Listen,” Crowley says and runs a hand through his hair. “I need another shower—s’some, ngk my hair--now,” he looks down, grimacing. “But we should try to avoid our room as much as possible today.”

Aziraphale closes his eyes and counts to five. _Right, tonight’s The Night_. “Yes, of course.”

“So, I was thinking,” Crowley starts and takes off his glasses, rubbing his eyes. “Since the killer might be lounging under our bed as we speak, you’ll wait here—”

“What? No.” Aziraphale exclaims, taking a step closer to Crowley. “Are you out of your mind? I’m not letting you go up there alone.”

“Wh—no, of course not, _my bad_ ,” Crowley says, narrowing his eyes at Aziraphale. “We’re just going to have you wait up there, in the same room as _the killer_ , and let them stab you to death through the mattress.”

“If you would just stop being overdramatic for one moment, Crowley.” Aziraphale says and glances around.

“Overdramatic?” Crowley sneers and lowers his voice. “There’re six dead men and we just stumbled upon a dead girl in the fucking gardens an--”

“Alright will you just shut up for a moment and let me think,” Aziraphale snaps and closes his eyes. “We’ll both go upstairs and into the bathroom. You’ll shower and I’ll sit on the floor and wait. Or something. We’ll leave the bathroom and the room together and if the killer is there, they’ll think we’re none the wiser.”

Crowley puts his glasses back on and purses his lips. “S’a bit odd, isn’t it?”

Aziraphale just shrugs his shoulders. “I presume, based on your attitude, that you have one single better idea, then?”

Clicking his tongue, Crowley just mumbles something inaudible and— _walks away_. Aziraphale is not a violent person but in that moment he wants to strangle his, well, whatever it is Crowley is. He doesn’t, and he never will, but he does stomp his foot in frustration which is probably worse.

* * *

Crowley, of course, doesn’t come up with any better ideas as it were, which is why Aziraphale finds himself sat on the tiled bathroom floor, legs outstretched before him, drumming his fingers to Queen’s Radio Gaga sounding from Crowley’s phone.

Crowley was right, it is slightly odd but it’s also, perfectly platonically, intimate in a way which makes it just a bit enjoyable.

He can hear Crowley humming along to the melody, his voice soft and pleasant, and Aziraphale rests his head against the wall. “I like this song.” he says, smiling a bit.

Crowley turns off the water and sticks his head out. “Uh, could you--?” he nods at the bathrobe hanging from a hook on the wall.

Aziraphale hands it to him and looks away. “Feeling better then, I gather?”

“Yeah--sorry ‘bout earlier.” Crowley says sheepishly and Aziraphale shakes his head.

“Please don’t apologise. There’s no need. It’s perfectly normal to, well, get overwhelmed and feel a bit s-“

“Shut. Up. _God_ ,” Crowley huffs, cutting him off, but sits down next to him anyway. “So, what--has Gabriel replied yet?” he says, changing the subject.

Aziraphale nods and tries not to look at him. “A forensics team will be sent here first thing tomorrow morning.” he says, giving Crowley a quick sideways glance.

“Good.” Crowley says quietly.

Later, as they ride the lift down to the ground floor, Crowley hooks his arm through Aziraphale’s and says, casually. “I’just—well, I‘wanted to say thank you.”

“You’re thanking me? What on earth for? Aziraphale says and gives him a funny look.

Crowley scoffs and ducks his head. “For earlier—ngk for being a fucking descent human being or whatever. _Jesus_. Never mind.” he says and Aziraphale leans sideways and kisses him. He’s not sure why he does it, exactly, but because Crowley kisses him back he decides not to overthink it.

* * *

It’s an odd feeling, eating dinner, trying to enjoy good wine, with the looming awareness that one might die in a few hours. Aziraphale doubts it will actually come to that but he’s rather fond of living and so it’s just a bit of a worrying concept.

“I put your gun in your nightstand.” Crowley says after a moment, entirely too casually, and Aziraphale nearly chokes on his salmon.

“You what?” Aziraphale hisses and lower his fork. “That’s dangerous, Crowley.”

“Hear me out. Since I’m person A, and therefore the first target, you’re going to have to defend yourself. From a distance, since they’ll probably have a knife,” he says. “Provided the killer doesn’t just stab me without trying to hold me down, I’ll hit the bed once if the knife is in their right hand and twice if it’s in their left. You shoot the shoulder on the side with the knife—their dominant hand most likely. That way—well, they’ll be at an immediate disadvantage.” he finishes and looks rather proud of himself.

Aziraphale, who stopped listening after the ‘shoot him’ bit, blinks at him. “One time, right. Two times, left. Got it. Jolly good.”

Crowley lifts his glasses and narrows his eyes at him. “Please tell me you’ve actually shot someone before, angel.”

“Uh, well, you see. Not strictly speaking, no. But I got top marks on the exams so I should think it will all work out okay.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Crowley groans and downs his glass of wine. Aziraphale realises then that they probably shouldn’t be drinking but what’s another bad decision in the grand scheme of things?

“It’s fine, Crowley. Just don’t—wiggle around. Wouldn’t want to accidently shoot you.” he says and laughs a bit.

Crowley looks at him as if he were mad. “No, no you wouldn’t.” he says. “I’can’t just ‘xactly choose not to _wiggle around_. I don’t actually want to get stabbed, Aziraphale.”

“Well perhaps you shouldn’t have involved my gun without asking me, then.” Aziraphale says.

“S—well, uh, maybe. Though, in my defence, you are a detective, _soo_ ,” Crowley says, leaning back.

“Just--let’s just make the best of it, alright?” Aziraphale says and rests his cutlery together. “By tomorrow we’ll be back home and we can pretend that this never happened.”

Crowley grimaces. “Bloody unlikely. Don’t think I’ll ever sleep again.”

“Well, yes, there’s that,” Aziraphale says grimly and watches Crowley steal his glass and down its contents in one go. “Now what?” Aziraphale says after a while of Crowley just staring at him, mouth slightly downturned.

“Now we wait.” Crowley says. “I would say 11p.m is an acceptable bedtime for two respectable adults, wouldn’t you?”

* * *

Crowley’s hand is warm in his as they enter their room. His long, slim fingers forcefully pressing into the back of Aziraphale’s hand and as much as it hurts, Aziraphale cannot find it in himself to let go.

They get undressed in the same room, for once, backs turned to one another. He can hear Crowley taking off his glasses, putting them on his nightstand, and Aziraphale isn’t sure what does it but he gets an impossibly large lump in his throat just then. He closes his eyes and clasps his hands together but finds that he doesn’t really know what to pray for.

The usually comfortable bed feels foreign, hollow in a way it hasn’t before. Aziraphale tries not to think about the killer that, most probably, is hiding right beneath them, knife in hand and filled with so much hate that they’re willing to murder them in cold blood to show the world, but it’s getting more difficult as time drags on. There are shadows everywhere, cast by the bright moonlight coming in above the curtain rails, and it’s a bit hard to breathe and sodding well _screw Gabriel for putting them through this_. There must be some type of complaint form he can fill out when they get back. Or, at the very least, some HR person he can speak to because this isn’t okay. They’re _bait_. 

Crowley is on his phone, its brightness lighting up his face—skin-marks and dimples and that dumb, twisty-y snake-tattoo near his left ear all visible. “Crowley?” Aziraphale breathes.

“Mhm,” Crowley hums and looks at him.

“Just—goodnight, dear.” Aziraphale says softly and paces a hand on Crowley’s cheek. There’s a bit of stubble there and Aziraphale is reminded, yet again--though it’s not like it’s easy to forget--, that he’ll never, ever, forgive himself if something were to happen to him. 

Crowley drops his phone to his chest and leans forward. “Goodnight, Aziraphale.” he whispers and kisses him before pulling him into a hug. Aziraphale buries his face in Crowley’s neck and breaths him in. _Pretending oughtn’t feel this good_. “Sleep well.”

Aziraphale doesn’t fall asleep, from the sounds of it neither does Crowley, and when you spend long enough in a dark room, with no indication of seconds or minutes, time sort of—collapses. Therefore, it’s hard to tell how many hours, minutes, or seconds, actually pass before the sound of rustling fabric all but echoes in the room, but it’s certainly long enough for Aziraphale’s fear to have morphed into anger.

He waits for any indication that the killer has approached Crowley and for a few seconds, nothing, at all, happens. Aziraphale is just about to let out a small sigh of relief—perhaps the killer thought _best not kill tonight_ —when a flurry of movements shake the mattress and Crowley lets out a muffled sound.

Aziraphale pretends to stir, turning his back to Crowley, and listens—feels and listens—for the tapping. Aziraphale has nearly obliterated the inside of his cheek by the time two distinct thuds are heard on the headboard.

 _Left_.

He opens his eyes, takes a steadying breath, and in one motion opens the drawer of his nightstand, grabs his gun, and turns around. The killer has one hand over Crowley’s mouth, kneeing him right below the ribs, and a knife inches away from his face. Crowley—oh good lord, Crowley—is gripping their hand, eyes unnaturally wide.

There’s a split second where Aziraphale wishes they could get out of there without shooting anybody, but then the killer turns to him and Crowley’s grip slips, making the knife plummet towards his neck, and that’s that.

The shot rings loud, but it’s steady, and with a shout the killer, a man Aziraphale now realises, falls off of Crowley and onto the floor. He groans and before Aziraphale can do much more than hope he didn’t actually _accidently_ kill somebody, Crowley is off the bed, too. “Call the bloody police, angel.”

The police—well, the other police—arrive within minutes. Apparently Gabriel had done the bare minimum by alerting the local officers of what might transpire, and the man, a UK national apparently, is taken into custody.

“You should get that looked at.” Aziraphale says to Crowley, they’re sitting in the corridor just outside the room and the bright lights make it clear that the cut on Crowley’s arm is really quite deep.

‘They’d just stitch it up.” Crowley says. “Don’t like needles.” he wiggles his eyebrows a bit and Aziraphale can’t help but laugh. It’s probably a bit hysteric, but Crowley looks at him with such warmth in his eyes that he can’t find the motivation to care.

Eventually, a uniformed officer exits the room and offers them a tired, polite, smile. “D.I Anthony Crowley and D.I Aziraphale Fell we’d like to take your statements now.”

It doesn’t take long, 10 minutes tops, and before dawn breaks they’re in a taxi headed for the airport. “At least we don’t have to take the ferry again.” Aziraphale says softly, looking at Crowley in the dark car.

Crowley, who has his head tilted back, eyes closed behind his sunglasses, chuckles dryly. “Almost makes it all worth it.” he says, joking, and rests his hand on the seat between them.

Aziraphale, who’s an expert in some things but definitely not in others, rests his hand next to Crowley’s, interlocking two of their fingers. He decides not to read too much into that, either. “Right? Though I thought yesterday was admittedly pleasant.”

Crowley chuckles and lifts his glasses. “Good shot today, by the way. Almost couldn’t tell it was your first time.”

Aziraphale scoffs and hides a smile by looking the other way. “Do come off it, Crowley.”

* * *

It’s bright by the time they arrive back in Dover, the afternoon rush of children finishing school and frantic parents trying to keep them in check very familiar. They’re not allowed back at the police station today, not according to Gabriel anyway, and Aziraphale finds he’s quite happy about that.

The car comes to a stop outside Aziraphale’s house first, the old building just as fuzzy and moss-covered as when he’d left it. Obviously. He glances down at his hands and swallows. “Well, I suppose this is where we part then, _fake-husband_.” he says, laughs a bit, but makes no move to get out of the car.

Crowley, who is starring out of the window, fingers drumming against the door, turns to him. ”If you—well,” Crowley starts quietly, drumming ceasing. “You can stay at my place tonight, if you want. Since—well, because of all that’s happened I thought, maybe, you wouldn’t want to be alone.” he says, all in one blur, and Aziraphale has to replay it in his head three times before the words actually sink in.

Staring straight ahead, Aziraphale finds himself shaking his head. “I don’t think that’s a very good idea.” he manages, not without nearly biting his lip off. Crowley looks away. “It’s not that I—I don’t. Listen, Crowley, tomorrow when everything is officially back to normal, you’ll go back to your side of the room and I’ll be where I usually am. Let’s not pretend that—well, I think it might be best if we just—rip the band aid off, so to speak. We’re going to have to learn to sleep with these demons poking about in our brains at some point. Might as well start now. I’ll be fine, really, but it was very kind—”

“Right,” Crowley cuts him off and Aziraphale can see his jaw tensing.

“Will you be—well, alright?” Aziraphale asks, a frown worrying its way onto his face.

“Yup,” Crowley says and Aziraphale reaches for his hand, squeezing it.

“Good. Well, right then. I should get going.” Aziraphale says and opens the car door. The driver is giving him A Look through the mirror and, well, _point taken, sir_. “Goodbye, then, Crowley.” he says and steps out. Crowley twirls his fingers at him before the door closes.

Aziraphale grabs his luggage from the trunk, watching the car drive off into the distance, and wonders why he’s suddenly finding it hard to breathe.

* * *

When Aziraphale steps into Gabriel’s office the morning after, Crowley is already there, staring down at his phone. Aziraphale presses his lips together and tries to smile. “Hello.”

“D.I Fell, how kind of you to join us.” Gabriel says, pointedly looking at the clock on the wall.

“He’s three minutes late, Gabriel.” Crowley scoffs, pocketing his phone.

Gabriel gives Crowley a thin-lipped smile and Aziraphale hurries to take a seat. “Terribly sorry for my tardiness.” he says and glances at Crowley who looks like he hasn’t slept either.

“Not to worry, not to worry.” Gabriel starts and leans back in his chair, crossing his hands behind his head. He raises his eyebrows and an awkward silence almost immediately falls over the room. “Well, I should say—congrats, gentlemen, on a job well done.”

Crowley shakes his head and curves his lips. “S’that why you called us in here at nine in the fucking morning?”

“Partly,” Gabriel says, apparently immune to Crowley’s temper. “More importantly, however, I wanted to let you know that the man, named Jackq Liguour, is waiting for you in interview room 8. Time to get some answers. 9.15 promptly.”

Aziraphale opens his mouth to speak but Crowley beats him to it. “Is that it?”

Gabriel’s face twists into a strange-looking half-smile. “Isn’t that enough?”

“Fantastic,” Crowley exhales and gets up to leave and Aziraphale suddenly wonders how his arm is doing.

“Oh, and your rings, please. Before you go.” Gabriel adds and Aziraphale’s brain short-circuits a bit then because of course. The rings.

He watches Crowley take off his ring, saunter over to Gabriel’s desk, and pop it in his hand. “Anything else?” Crowley snarls.

When Gabriel shakes his head, Crowley leaves.

“And your ring, D.I Fell. Unless you’d like to keep it.” Gabriel says, smugly.

Aziraphale looks down at his hands and removes the gold band from his finger. “There you go,” he says.

“Thaanks—looks like you guys got some nice weather, too. Good for you.” Gabriel says.

“Um—I don’t--?”

Gabriel gestures to his ring finger. “Rings and tan lines. That’s why it’s so difficult to cheat in more tropical climates.”

Aziraphale looks down to his hand again and where the ring used to sit there’s now just a pale line of skin. He blinks at it and then up at Gabriel. “Yes, well, rather. Can I--?” he points to the door.

“Of course,” Gabriel says and Aziraphale exhales slowly, getting up. “Just one more thing.”

“Yes?” Aziraphale says and silently curses Crowley for having left him in there alone.

“Why did you guys just--lay down and wait for him to attack you?”

Aziraphale blinks, brain short-circuiting again. “Ah, well, you see it was the most logical course of action, really,“ he says, twisting his fingers together.

“While I trust your judgement, wouldn’t it have been more profitable and significantly less dangerous to just have waited for him, hidden somewhere, and just caught him during the day?” Gabriel says, eyes amused.

Aziraphale’s vision goes blurry for a second and he finds himself wishing that the floor would open up so he could just--disappear. He smiles at Gabriel and then dismisses himself since the floor does not, in fact, open up.

He stomps over to interview room 8 and finds Crowley leaning against the wall. “Do you remember why, exactly, we decided against catching him during the day? Because Gabriel seems to think we made a questionable decision by letting him almost stab us in our sleep.” Aziraphale says.

Crowley leans forward a bit and tilts his head. “Uh, no—” he trails off and Aziraphale narrows his eyes at him. “But I’m sure we had a very—uh _really_ good reason. Expertly good.”

Aziraphale gives him a sideways glance and purses his lips. “ _Or_ ,” he starts, glancing around the empty corridor. “We’re just wonderfully incompetent and almost got you killed in vain.”

“Nah, doesn’t sound like us.” Crowley says just as his watch beeps. 9.15a.m. “Right, it’s showtime.” he sighs.

Aziraphale sighs, too, but follows him into the interview room where a middle-aged man is sitting handcuffed to a table. He smiles at them as they enter and Aziraphale feels sick to his stomach.

“Good morning, lovely seeing you again,” Aziraphale says in near disgust and takes a seat, pressing the green button to start the recording. “It’s currently 9.16a.m, June 21, 2019. D.I Fell and D.I Crowley are present and conducting this interview. Interviewee is Jackq Ligour, arrested for the murder of John and Kevin Hallard, Fin and Jacob Backstrand, Daniel and Christpoher Hall-Grey, and Juliette Brodeur. Mr. Ligur is accompanied by his solicitor Jane Farman.” he says and glances at Crowley.

“You know why you’ve been arrested. Now we’d like for you to tell us why you thought it was a good idea to murder seven people.” Crowley says and leans back in his chair. “Go on, I know you want to tell us.” he says, voice venomous.

“Fuck you,” Ligur says.

Crowley just chuckles. “How’s your shoulder, by the way? Hope it’s not bothering you too terribly?”

* * *

_Jackq Ligur, 53 from Maidstone, is ultimately charged with the murder of seven people (John Hallard 43 and Kevin Hallard 40, Fin Backstrand 34 and Jacob Backstrand 38, Daniel Hall-Grey 54 and Christpoher Hall-Grey 41, and Juliette Brodeur 16), attempted murder of one (D.I Anthony J. Crowley, 37), assaulting a police officer (D.I Aziraphale A. Fell, 38), and theft._

_Jackq Ligur killed the seven victims because they were openly involved in same sex relationships. He started with the first couple, killed John, forced Kevin to watch (February 20, 2019). Thus (and confirmed), ritualistic in nature. He then killed Juliette (estimated time of death late March 2019), buried her in the fenced off area of Sun-side resort with the help of a young employee (Edwin Bisset, 16) from the resort. Due to the natural phenomenon of a body decomposing and the weather conditions, they had to return nightly to keep it concealed. Jackq Ligur then proceeded to kill Fin then Jacob (April 20, 2019). He then killed Daniel then Christopher (May 20, 2019). In all the previously named cases Jackq Ligur stole the victims’ belongings and proceeded to stage a break-in. Near 3a.m, on June 20, 2019, Jackq Ligur attacked D.I Crowley and D.I Fell, injuring with the intent to kill D.I Crowley. At 10.03a.m on June 21, 2019, Ligur pushed D.I Fell up against a wall as he was leaving the interview, spitting him in the face_.

_Jackq Ligur has been a permanent resident at the Sun-side resort (Calais, France) for one year and he confirms that the killings were planned from the beginning due to the resort’s liberal clientele. According to the French police, nobody at the resort suspected anything but further investigation into those claims is underway._

Aziraphale saves the draft of the report and closes his eyes. It’s nearing 9p.m, the station’s essentially empty, and he can’t be bothered, quite frankly, to stand up and go home.

He sighs and opens his eyes to find Newt standing by his desk, a cup of tea in his hand. Aziraphale wants to yell at him to go home but that’s sort of Crowley’s thing. “Oh hello, is there anything I can help you with?” he says instead.

Newt puts the teacup down a bit awkwardly and shrugs his shoulders. “D.I Crowley just left and demanded I give this to you,” he says and nods to the mug. “Does he always make it that strong? It looks like coffee.”

Aziraphale smiles. “He does, I’m afraid. Although I’ve grown quite fond of the way he makes it. Though, obviously, don’t tell him that.”

“Obviously.” Newt says and nudges his glasses up his nose. “I just wanted to say that I’m glad to hear you solved that case, but I’m sorry to hear what happened.”

Aziraphale’s smile falters slightly. “Thank you, Newt.”

“Well, I should get going, I think.” Newt says. “Just—D.I Crowley also told me to tell you to text him. Seemed a bit concerned about you so perhaps do that. He was very adamant.”

“How kind.” Aziraphale says, amused, and takes a sip of the tea. It is, like always, bitter and in a way very comforting.

“Well, bye then, D.I Fell.” Newts says and walks away.

“Bye.” Aziraphale chuckles. _What a delightfully odd man_.

He looks around, at the empty tables and chairs and whiteboards, and wishes that Crowley were there. He’s not sure when that particular train of thought developed but he’s rather too exhausted to push it aside.

Suddenly determined, he gathers his things, finishes his cup of tea, and just—leaves. Because judging by how badly the tea had burned the roof of his mouth Crowley’ can’t be far and he’d like to see him. 

The night is cold and Aziraphale shivers a bit in his blazer and bowtie. He looks around, a bit frantically, and spots Crowley in the distance. He’s by himself, head turned down, and he’s walking slowly. “Crowley!” he shouts, probably louder than he needs to considering the non-existent traffic, but it does the job because Crowley stops and turns around. It’s strange, Aziraphale thinks, the way Crowley’s entire demeanour can change so quickly.

Crowley raises a hand and waves. “Hiya Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale beams. Again, he doesn’t really know why but Crowley smiles back, widely with teeth and all, and so Aziraphale doesn’t care. He walks towards him. “Thank you for the tea.” he says when he reaches him.

“I told him not— _bloody_ _Newt_ ,” Crowley mutters and grimaces a bit. “S’just wanted to make sure—” he waves a hand at Aziraphale. “That you were—well.”

Warmth blossoms in Aziraphale’s chest and he take s a step towards Crowley. “I am. Are you?”

Crowley shrugs his shoulders and it’s visible in the lines on his face and the slight tilt of his lip that he isn’t. Yet... “Yeah.”

Aziraphale can’t help but look at his left hand, then--there’s a white line there, identical to the one Aziraphale has on his finger. Aziraphale takes a deep breath and decides, again, not to dwell on what he’s about to say. “Your offer, from yesterday. Is it, by any chance, still standing?”

Crowley tucks his chin towards his chest. “Thought you said that wasn’t a g—”

“Yes, well, I changed my mind. Don’t worry about it.“ Aziraphale huffs and rolls his eyes.

Crowley looks up at him, not smiling per-se, but looking happy and content and it’s absolutely much better than a smile, Aziraphale finds himself thinking. “Offer still stands, then.”

“I’ll need to,” Aziraphale gestures over his shoulder, in the general direction of his home. “Get some things.”

“Uh, yeah sure. Fine.” Crowley says and pushes some dirt on the pavement around with the toe of his shoe.

“Shall I see you at yours in about 30 minutes, then?” Aziraphale asks. He tugs at the ring on his middle finger.

“Yup,” Crowley says and turns on his heel, seemingly fleeing the scene. Aziraphale might have wondered if he’d overstepped, somehow, would it not be for the way Crowley—about halfway down the road—turns around and grins at him.

33 minutes later, Crowley opens the door and raises one eyebrow. “I wish you’d told me you were moving in. I would have cleared some space in the closet.”

Aziraphale glares down at his suitcase and snorts. “I haven’t had time to unpack yet, come off it.”

Crowley, laughs, steps aside and lets him in. His apartment is minimal, dark but elegant, and there are plants scattered all around. Aziraphale turns around, looks at Crowley, Crowley who is now wearing sweat trousers and an old Queen t-shirt, and walks over and kisses him, ever so briefly.

Crowley just looks at him, glasses and all, and presses a similarly innocent kiss to Aziraphale’s lips in return. “Uh--?” he asks, licking his lips.

Aziraphale who can’t stop looking at said lips says. “Best not?”

“Probably, yeah.” Crowley says and turns around. Aziraphale smoothens down his blazer. _That’s that solved then, good_. 

“Lovely plants” Aziraphale comments, not thinking about the fact that _best not_ was one of the worst things he could have said. “Very green.”

He hears Crowley scoff in disgust from another room and laughs, taking off his shoes.

They share a bed that night, fully clothed with their hands intertwined in the space between them. And that’s that, really, and it’s fine. Because it’s not like two grown people, _two_ _friends_ , can’t share a bed and kiss each other. Occasionally.

It only becomes slightly more complicated when Aziraphale, during a workday in mid-September, realises that, somewhere between the bed-sharing and the tea and the casual kissing, he’s fallen in love with Crowley. _With Crowley_ who, from all the way across the room, looks rather like he might have fallen a bit in love, too.

Which is fine, Aziraphale realises and grins at his keyboard, taking a sip of his tea. It really, really is.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading. Comments and kudos are always very welcome--I would love to hear what you think.


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